Narrate
by youthere
Summary: Just because something's ridiculous doesn't mean it can't kill you. Silly turns dark and deadly when the brothers come across an ancient and extremely odd curse. POSSIBLE SPOILERS TO ANYTHING AIRED.
1. Chapter 1

**Story:** Narrate by youthere

**Beta:** Don't have a beta... anybody looking to adopt?

**Disclaimer:** I own'em! I own'em! They're mine!... wait, who was that guy with the glowing hand...?

**Rated** for language and possibly minor gore...

**A/N:** I had a whole thing going about Dean's deal and Sam's destiny and the Apocalypse and everything. Then I watched TIOMS and figured "Y'know what? Kripke's got it covered...". So here's one set in the early 3rd season and pretty much just about the guys running into something... odd. Still might write that other one too, though... hm.

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NARRATE

I.

It was just... awkward.

The Winchesters had tracked a number of mysterious deaths to a local witch acting alone and, as her guardian demon seemed to be nowhere in sight, decided to take the direct approach. They'd caught her with her guard down and despite a large reserve of interesting threats, she hadn't offered much resistance. Of course she had been more than a little angry and seemed about a breath from actually stomping her foot (honest to god) when Dean trashed her altar.

She'd watched them sullenly (yeah, definitely the foot- stomping- type) as they made their way to the door of her apartment. Then, with a swiftness neither brother had anticipated, she'd snatched a small object from a nearby table and thrown it at Dean, hitting him just over the right eyebrow with enough force to draw blood. Time seemed to freeze for an instant as both brothers stared down at the fallen object, Sam with his heart in his throat, Dean more stunned than anything. It took a second to realize just what the hell it was.

Now they all stood silently and stared down at the object, the brothers in mute amazement, the witch looking slightly embarrassed. It was just awkward.

Dean was first to break the silence."Did you just throw a PEBBLE at me? That's just..." he paused for a moment, struggling for the words to express his indignation."...lame." He finished... lamely.

The witch made no reply and, with a disappointed shake of the head, Dean deliberately turned his back on her (after subtly assuring himself that Sam would have him covered, no reason to be insulting and stupid at the same time) and stomped out the door.

X

He was fuming by the time they got back to the car. He was a badass hunter for chrissake! Things tried to kill him, they did not throw pebbles! It was just... disrespectful! Witches! Sucked!

"I can't believe she threw a pebble at me, man." he grumbled. "What the hell? Did we just destroy a black altar in Kindergarten?"

Sam wrinkled his brows. "That's a really disturbing sentence..."

"You know what I mean!" Dean poked at the small cut above his eyebrow in the rear view mirror. "Ow! Sonovabitch!"

Sam just grinned, since the fact that his brother had just said 'ow' proved he was not actually in pain. But the younger Winchester still didn't feel completely at ease. "You know, she was still a witch. We should maybe look into that thing, be sure it wasn't anything dangerous."

Dean just scowled. "Yeah Sam, we better figure this one out soon. Maybe it was a werepebble."

Sam mumbled something about Dean's head getting turned to stone probably not making much difference, but his words were lost as Dean hit the volume on the car's tape deck.

X

They made quick work of packing their stuff, deciding to hit the road right away, since the witch had been so quickly taken care of. Sam insisted on putting a couple of butterfly patches on Deans forehead first, though, earning himself the evil eye for "being a drama queen, it was a friggin' pebble. " Just over an hour later they turned onto the highway stretching out nearly empty in the muffled sunlight.

Sam leaned back in his seat closing his eyes to half mast. They'd dealt with the witch easy enough but the werewolf before her had been a hard kill and werewolf hunts still tended to get to him.

He let the music from the tape deck wash over him and tried to catch what rest he could.

He actually quite liked Zeppelin, not that he would ever let Dean know that. Sam was pretty sure that if he'd failed to roll his eyes when Dean popped the tape in, he would have been in negligence of a brotherly duty of some sort. Complaining about the music was practically part of his job description, but the ancient tapes were part of Dean's and without them, the Impala would feel that much less like home.

Thinking that Sam had fallen asleep, Dean turned down the volume and Sam resisted the urge to smile to himself.

X

It was already late by the time they got to their next temporary home.

Dean went to book them in as James and Ernest ( "guess who's Ernest" ) Goldman, while Sam started getting their stuff out of the trunk. He had finally convinced his brother to stop using celebrity names as aliases, when the FBI started hunting for them. It would just be too stupid if the thing that finally got them caught was a trail of mullet rocker's motel bills.

Formalities taken care of, Dean hit the shower while Sam lay back on his bed resting his eyes and taking in the sounds of their new residence. The A/C clanked (but thankfully worked) and he could hear the distant hum of cars on the highway, over the sound of running water and Dean humming. He could also hear the quiet but insistent drone of a voice coming from the next room, probably a TV set. It was an annoyingly persistent sound but infinitely better than some of the sounds they had heard through paper thin walls, giving them more insight into their neighbour's past times than anyone would ever want.

Sam opened his eyes and ran them over the room. It wasn't too bad actually. No unidentifiable stains in the bead spreads, no weird smells and, best of all, no crazy themed décor.

His eyes stopped on a desk under the window. Lying innocently on it was... huh...

Just then, Dean emerged from the bathroom in a cloud of steam.

"Uhm... did you bring the pebble with us?" Sam asked.

"What?"

"The stone the witch threw at you. Did you take it with us?"

"What? No. Why the hell would I do that?"

Sam didn't answer, but looked back at the desk. Walking over and leaning down to the table top, he squinted at the small pebble resting on it. It was the same one, there was even a small smear of Dean's blood on the side. Sam was pretty sure not a lot of different pebbles had Dean's blood on them.

Then, as he put his face closer to it, he realized the droning voice wasn't coming from the next room. He straightened up.

This just couldn't be good.

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**A/N** Hey there's a weird little button down there... wanna check out what it does? :)


	2. Chapter 2

**Story:** Narrate by youthere

**Beta: **Don't have a beta... anybody looking to adopt?

**Disclaimer: **I own'em! I own'em! They're mine!... wait, who was that guy with the glowing hand...?

**Spoilers: **Nothing major but stuff from any aired episode may slip in...

**A/N** I went and changed the first chapter a little, I saw I had accidental made Dean into a total jerk... it tends to be a fine line with him :)

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NARRATE

II.

It was just... stupid.

At first Dean had laughed at the whole thing. Well, it was pretty funny. Sam had kinda freaked out when he realized where the voice was coming from and you have to admit: when a guy who regularly gets chocked, beaten, hunted and kidnapped by all possible kinds of badasses, supernatural or otherwise, almost panics because a small rock appears to be following him... it makes you chuckle.

It had gotten less funny when they decided to postpone research to the morning and get some sleep since they were both pretty worn out. The damn thing just hadn't stopped talking and the non stopping buzz of it's voice only got more annoying as the night wore on. They had tried putting it outside, throwing it in a dumpster, locking it in the bathroom and burying it under a heap of pillows, but somehow it always ended up back on the desk, uncovered and chattering unconcernedly to itself. In the wee hours Dean had even tried to salt and burn it, but with no success.

What really had them both puzzled was what the bloody thing was talking about. It was telling stories. Legends, folktales, tall tales, anecdotes, allegories, pieces of gossip, hell- even fishing stories. All told in the same monotonous voice, never stopping for breath (obviously) and not even pausing in between stories. It was the most mind numbingly boring cursed object Dean had ever come across.

In the morning, after a short and fitful sleep, Dean had dragged himself out to get coffee. He hadn't gotten further than a block from the motel before the damn thing appeared in the back seat making him jump (and yeah, almost panic...a little) so bad he swerved onto the wrong lane and narrowly escaped a head on collision with a Toyota Corolla ("Who the hell drives that car anyway!?"). The pebble had then appeared on the counter in the diner where he went to get breakfast and in two different spots in the convenience store he popped into. And now, when he had just gassed up the Impala and was preparing to chat up the very busty girl behind the register, the damn thing was suddenly sitting in his pocket, still rambling on. It was just stupid.

X

Dean cringed as the pretty brunette shot him a questioning glance, obviously puzzled by the voice coming from his jacket. He attempted to distract her with his usual dazzling smile ( and he wasn't kidding himself here, girls did get pretty distracted ) but it came out more than a little strained.

"Ehrm... just a... book on tape" he told her, gesturing to his pocket.

The girl was obviously new and was taking her sweet time figuring out how she charged for which pump and had to ask him twice which pump he had been at. All the while the stone rattled on and, to Dean's horror, the current story was a hospital drama. Apparently a young nurse had been seduced by the wicked rich half brother of the young doctor she was really in love with and was now pregnant- but who's baby was it?

The register made a strange squealing noise and the girl went running to the back in search of a more experienced employee to help her, leaving Dean standing there with a long que forming behind him. And yeah, they could all hear his "book on tape". It turned out hey were both very handsome doctors, with blazing dark eyes and devilish smiles.

By the time he could finally get the hell out of there the rock had plunged into a florid description of a traitorous kiss between one of the doctors and the young nurse's sister on a moonlit beach, and Dean was pretty sure he would never see his masculinity restored.

X

Sam looked up from the computer as Dean entered their room, obviously in no sweet temper.

"Dude, this is the dumbest friggin' curse I've ever come across. You find out anything?"

"Yeah actually. I'm pretty sure this is a Story Rock"

"Like a rock that tells stories? Wow! What was your first clue?"

"Hey, I didn't come up with the name. But look..." Sam turned the computer screen towards his brother. "There's quite a lot of lore. Here, see: 'A story rock is a small rock of any kind, that tells stories of all varieties' - well that much we'd already established...It says that to get a Story Rock you have to climb up to a raven's nest on the night before the Winter Solstice. Instead of eggs you find the nest full of rocks. As soon as one is touched by human hand it starts speaking and never stops."

"Okay...so, an extremely annoying supernatural Walkman. That doesn't explain why it follows us around."

"Follows you around, actually. It's a question of ownership. Apparently if you mark the stone with your blood, it's yours forever and will never leave you or be taken from you... And dude: ipod."

"Wait, mark it in your blood as in that bitch splitting my face open with it?"

"Now who's being a drama queen?"

Dean sent Sam a glare that would have rivaled his own on a good day, so the younger brother simply nodded: "Yeah, seems like you own it now. Your very own pet rock."

Dean scowled. "Well, that's just great! How do we get rid of it?"

"So far I've only found two ways. One is to mark it with someone else's blood, which would only mean lugging them with the curse, and the other is to return the stone to the nest it was originally taken from, which is obviously easier said than done. I was thinking I'd go to the library and dig around there for more info and maybe you could call Bobby and see if he knows anything."

Dean nodded eyeing the pebble with a sour expression. "Figures I'd get cursed with having to listen to non stop talk about romance and fishing. If it's 'stories of all varieties' why doesn't it at least tell some cool ones? Hell, some hunting stories or something."

As f it had heard him, the rock started:

_Sam sat on the hood of the Impala leafing through the day's paper. The car was parked in front of a biker bar and the noise drifting out washed over him in the warm night air, along with the heavy smell of smoke and cheap beer. He turned another page as a couple of the bar's leather clad patrons walked by, his eyes coming to rest on an article ..._

The brother stared at each other, eyes wide.

"No way" Dean whispered, awed.

They listened for a while, and the stone was indeed telling the story of their meeting with Larry the Developer's family and one seriously cursed piece of land.

"But, but... we went on that hunt." Sam spluttered. "It wasn't just a story!"

Dean shrugged, although no less confused. "Nothin's just a story. All of Dad's stories happened, but they were still stories."

Sam nodded, unsure. "I guess... All the lore and legends we chase started with real things." He frowned. "The stone must potentially have access to all stories..."

Dean grinned hugely. "Dude were like legends? This is awesome!" Then his expression suddenly sobered as his own words from earlier caught up with him. "Dad's stories..." He said quietly. "Do you ... think it..." he trailed off and stared at the pebble.

Again, as if knowing exactly what was expected of it, the stone lunged into a new story:

_The wind was sharp and cold as it wove it's way through the naked branches of the midnight forest, bringing with it the metallic smell of snow yet to fall. John pulled his collar tighter and eyed the shadows around him warily. The weight of his sawed-off felt reassuring in his hand, but there was something tugging at the back of his consciousness, an uneasy feeling he had long ago learned not to ignore..._

Both brothers stared at the stone, faces frozen in shock.

Finally Dean spoke again in a hushed voice, but couldn't come up with anything more coherent than: "Sonova..."

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**A/N **The story rock is an actual piece of lore. Somebody told me the Icelandic National Library keeps a collection of alleged story rocks, but I haven't gotten to check if that's true. I made up the part about marking them in your blood though, I had to find a way to make it stalk Dean :)


	3. Chapter 3

**Story:** Narrate by youthere

**Beta: **Don't have a beta... anybody looking to adopt?

**Disclaimer**: I own'em! I own'em! They're mine!... wait, who was that guy with the glowing hand...?

**Spoiler for AHBL 2.**

**A/N **Seems the story decided to happen a bit later than "early third season", now it's somewhere after Mystery spot.

I can't for the life of me remember who it was that made John use the name Wayne as an alias before me, otherwise I would have asked permission... Anyway I really liked that and if the person in question is reading: a very sheepish sorry and thank you, I just couldn't resist :)

Oh and Ghostley: Thanks so much for your review, I swear I'd already written the first line when I saw it :)

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III.

It was just ... awesome.

The brothers had sat for hours listening to the "pebble" telling stories, mostly of their father, sometimes of other hunters. They remembered John telling them some of the same stories, others he'd never talked about. Sometimes they remembered the preparations or the patch up jobs while having been left out of the actual hunts, and some were hunts they'd come along on, their own actions and memories recounted to them in third person.

They had discovered that, while the stone did not stop speaking for even a split second, it did seem to run on a kind of "request program". If a particular subject was mentioned it would immediately pull up a story on it and sometimes it even seemed simply to read the general atmosphere and respond with an appropriate narrative. Sam wasn't even gonna _ask_ how _that_ worked.

All thoughts of research temporarily forgotten, the brothers had simply sat and listened into the small hours, finally falling asleep to, and this did make them cringe; a goodnight story. The next morning Sam had torn himself from the side of the thing wanting to get to the library to do a bit more research, while Dean had taken the job of calling Bobby and their other contacts to see if any of them had encountered this kind of thing before. But first he'd snuck in a couple more stories.

It was just awesome.

X

When Sam came back to the motel in the afternoon he was greeted by his brother's brightest grin and made a mental note to get some shades for those occasions. Or maybe a pair of those solar eclipse glasses...

"Dude, this rock... rocks!" Dean announced. "It just told this really dirty story about a stewardess and a..." Sam just rolled his eyes and his brother's grin grew wider if that were possible. "And hey, it knows a shitload of funny ones too!"

As if to verify this, the rock started a new story:_ So, a priest, a rabbi and a transvestite walk into a bar..._

Dean leaned his head back and chuckled delightedly.

Sam couldn't help smiling at his brothers enthusiasm as he flopped down on his own bed. "So the library had nothing." he said. "Did you call Bobby?"

"Yeah, he..." Dean started, but then seemed to get distracted by another thought. "Hey, did you ever hear the story of the first time Dad and Bobby hunted together?"

"No, did the rock tell you?"

"Yup, and I can see why Dad and Bobby never did." Dean said smirking.

Sam sat up again."Why? What happened?"

"Well, it was a salt and burn, one of Dad's first. Except they overdid the kerosene and the whole thing went up in a giant blaze, singeing the eyebrows off Bobby. Then it spread and ended up taking out three trees and a mausoleum."

"No way."

Dean spread his palms theatrically."That's what the man said."

Sam eyed the rock. "Man?"

His brother just shrugged. "Whatever."

Sam let that one go. It was good to hear Dean talk about of their father, relaxed and open like this. Ever since Wyoming, the Winchesters had been plagued with worries over the escaped demons and Dean's deal, but that night had still lifted one burden off the older brother's shoulders. John was no longer burning in hell for his son and it had become possible to think of him again, without hearing screams of agony and accusation. They both still missed him like hell and, if Sam were honest with himself, still had a lifetime supply of issues with the man. But sometimes it felt good, allowing yourself to just remember.

He drew his attention back to his brother. "So, what did they do?"

"That's the best part." Said Dean, grinning even more broadly. "In stead of just legging it or calling the fire department or something, Dad totally panicked and tried to put out a tree with his jacket... and that's what they were doing when the cops came..."

"Well... Dad still would have talked his way out of that one." Sam said, sounding just a little unsure.

"Nope." Dean shook his head. "I mean, he wasn't always a con artist. He knew his guns from the Marines, but he was a useless liar when he was younger. He tried to tell the cops they were employees of the cemetery and they were having a fire drill. The state of Wisconsin still has outstanding charges of vandalism against Mr. Rogers and Mr. Wayne."

Sam just stared. The image of the Great John Winchester, shamefaced and soot covered and accompanied by an eyebrow-less Bobby Singer, trying to explain to the cops why exactly he'd set a large part of a cemetery on fire, was just... unexpected. He remembered his father's strict face as he scolded him for carelessness or lectured him on gun safety and the memory, contrasted with the panic stricken man flailing ineffectually at a burning tree with his jacket, was too much. Sam burst out laughing.

Instead of trying to control it he just leaned his head back and let the laughter bubble up from his stomach. God, it felt good to laugh for once. Dean watched his brother, chuckling, until Sam's laughter became too infectious and he allowed himself to slump back on his bed and laugh wholeheartedly, mouth wide open. Maybe at the story of their father, or maybe at nothing at all.

X

At last they pulled themselves together, Sam wiping tears from his face and Dean still grinning like a madman.

"But seriously..." Sam said, taking a deep steadying breath. "Did Bobby know anything?"

"No, but he said he'd see if he could dig anything up." Dean started laughing again and Sam looked at him puzzled. "And then I told him it told us the eyebrow story..."

Sam's imagination promptly supplied him with an image of Bobby's face when reminded of the incident, and he couldn't help doubling over in laughing fits again.

X

**A/N** Okay, not a lot happens in this one, but I just really wanted to slide in a short fluffy chapter with the guys actually laughing (and not as in "in the face of death"). They don't seem to get to do that a lot any more...

I'm going on a week long vacation (and I gotta admit I'm a little freaked about leaving my laptop behind. That can't be healthy...) so the next chapter will go up as soon as I get back in the first week of june. I really wanted to post this before I left so there are till a few kinks. My humblest apologies. See u in june :)


	4. Chapter 4

**Story:** Narrate by youthere

**Beta: **Don't have a beta... anybody looking to adopt?

**Disclaimer: **I own'em! I own'em! They're mine!... wait, who was that guy with the glowing hand...?

**A/N **Okay, I had this pretty much ready anyway so I decided to get it out before I left. Let me know if it's not up to par... I might rewrite when I get back.

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IIII.

It was getting ... frustrating.

It had been cool for a while, really cool. They'd had a lot of laughs and learned a lot of things that at least Sam found interesting. And they'd gotten to know Dad in a way he'd never really allowed them to. Those stories had seemed to make Sam a bit sad, actually. He'd been a rebellious teenager when he stopped speaking to their father and the time he got to spend with him as an adult had been painfully short. Dean could imagine that hearing all those stories of Dad being, well, a person had to hurt, reminding Sam that he'd never really gotten to know that person. But maybe it was still worth listening, getting to know him at least by that much. At any rate, Sam had continued to ask for more.

But now. Now it had been almost five days and, frankly, nothing the stone had to say could possibly interest Dean anymore. Right now all he wanted was a moment's peace. Scratch that, what he wanted was for the whole world to go mute so he'd never have to listen to another word spoken again.

The bloody thing just didn't stop. Not while he was trying to sleep, trying to talk to Sam, trying to eat his meals, trying to go to the fucking bathroom. Sam had come across a possible case in town but they hadn't even tried to do the hunt, handing it over to Ellen to dole out to someone else. You can't do stealth with a talking rock on your shoulder. The whole thing was giving him a monster friggin' headache and he hadn't been able to get a decent night's sleep since they'd trashed the witch's altar.

All he heard day in and day out was the goddamn rock droning on, and now he couldn't even hunt. 'Frustrating' didn't begin to describe this.

God he wished he'd never even heard of witches.

X

Sam's irritation was nowhere near his brother's in intensity ( after all, he could actually take a piss without the rock telling him toilet jokes ) but he did seem just as determined as Dean to get rid of the thing.

"Look" he said, looking up from his laptop and stretching his neck. "I can't find any more ways to destroy the stone. I think our only option is to go back, try to find the witch and make her tell us where she got it. If we're lucky she took it from the nest herself and can tell us where it is."

Dean snorted. "If we're lucky?"

"I'm serious. Ravens usually keep their nests in the same location for years. It could still be there."

"Yeah. If we can find the witch, if we get her to talk, if she picked the stone herself, if she remembers where, if the nest is still there... then we're home and dry. Come on man, it's weak."

"Yeah, Dean. You're right, it's bloody weak. But I' not seeing a whole lot of other options here. Unless you just want to lug this thing around for the rest of your life."

Dean visibly cringed and then nodded.

"Start packing."

X

It was only about a day's drive to the town where the whole mess had begun and the brothers were making good time, the story rock providing a running commentary all the way.

Almost half way there, they stopped for lunch at yet another obscure fast-food joint in yet another nameless small town. The place was about as cheerful as Dean's mood, but he did perk up a little when he saw the menus. Not because they promised anything particularly good but because, in a desperate attempt to create a welcoming family atmosphere, someone had stuck a slightly psychotic looking clown on the front and in the corner of every page. Watching Sam try to negotiate the menu without looking at the things wasn't high entertainment, but right now he'd take his chuckles where he could get them.

Half way through their meal, the rock told another of the dirty stewardess stories ( there were a lot of those ) and earned Dean a high voltage evil eye from a middle aged woman sitting in the next booth with two preschool children. Dean tried to send her a disarming smile but it was received with frigid distaste. As he looked up at the waitress he realized that _she_ was staring at him like she'd run into a flasher in the park. The older Winchester threw down his half eaten burger with a dark look.

This was not a reaction he was used to from women and he didn't intend on _getting_ used to it. Grumbling under his breath he stormed out, leaving Sam to pay for their meal.

X

The two women's heads would probably have exploded, had they heard the litany of curses Dean let rip when they got back in the car.

"Okay so from now on: take out only." Was Sam's only response as they pulled out of the parking lot. "And dude, will you stop making all my credit cards out for Ernest. It stopped being funny like four states back and it's dangerous to keep using the same names."

Dean merely grumbled an inarticulate response and decided with himself that the next ID he made for Sam would be in the name of Manfred. Or maybe Chester. His brother could blame himself, he thought, bitching when Dean felt about ready to take a swing at something. In his own opinion he was showing a lot of self discipline. Hell, under the circumstances he was practically zen.

He shook his head, trying to dislodge the damn headache and reached for the tuner on the car radio. If there was ever the right time to drown out the world with music then this was it.

To his dismay the radio merely emitted a high pitched wail interspersed with static. Dean cursed and turned the tuning knob. Not one station appeared to be working though, everything coming out in the same ear splitting wail.

"I think it's the rock." Sam said, glancing at the thing perched in the back seat. "It probably doesn't like the competition"

Dean nimbly fished a Black Sabbath tape out of his cassette box and popped it in the deck, refusing to believe he'd be completely robbed of his music. Ozzy only got as far as "_Can he see or is he blind?..._" though, before the tape deck gave a horrible grating noise, popping the cassette out, but holding onto much of the actual tape, tangled in the read head.

"SONOVABITCH!!"

Dean swung to the side of the road and slammed on the brakes. For a second he just stared mutely at the remains of his tape and deck and then looked up at Sam.

"I'm gonna take that goddamn rock" He growled through clenched teeth "and I'm gonna choke the bitch on it."

Sam didn't say anything as his brother turned back to the wheel, muttering something that sounded a lot like "Practically zen..."

But he had a sneaking suspicion that their witch may have already made herself very hard to find.


	5. Chapter 5

**Story: **Narrate by youthere

**Beta'd by: **Ghostley

**Disclaimer:** I own'em! I own'em! They're mine!... wait, who was that guy with the glowing hand...?

**A/N:**

First of all, thank you to Ghostley for taking the time to help me out with this (and for not smacking me upside the head for how annoying I've been...). After she'd read this over, though, I kinda went and fucked it up again, so all screw ups you might find are still solely on my head...

Secondly, uh... I said June didn't I? I'm not even gonna start with the excuses, just my humblest apologies for the delay... rest assured I feel my shame...

So, If anybody still has the patience for this little fic, there it goes again:

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V.

It was completely and utterly fucking ridiculous, that's what it was!

Of course, they hadn't found the witch. That would have been too much to ask for, wouldn't it?!

They'd scoured the town and it's surroundings, digging up every little bit of info about the woman and trying to figure out where she might have gone, but nothing. If it hadn't been for one rather puzzled neighbor telling them that "now that he came to think about it..." he hadn't seen "that nice Miss Bertram" around for days, Dean could almost have believed she'd never actually existed. But of course there was that curse she'd lugged him with. That was pretty compelling evidence.

Bobby hadn't been able to come up with anything either, neither regarding the rock nor the witch. He was sure that none of the disarming spells he knew would help, and that no curse box would hold against the thing's bond to Dean. He'd never heard of anybody coming across this before and had admitted to Sam that, up until now, he'd thought the story rock was nothing more than a tall tale.

Ellen only had similar things to say, and Sam's own research turned up absolutely nil. They didn't relish contact with other hunters since Gordon Walker, but had still resorted to going through Dad's old contact list. However, no one on there could (or would) help.

It had been almost nine days now and the grand company of hunters, experts and geniuses in Dean's life, were all utterly helpless against a small piece of granite. It was fucking ridiculous.

X

Dean paced across the limited floor space of their motel room, trying to block out the droning flow of stories, coupled with the incessant clicking and tapping sound from the laptop keyboard. He had to hand it to Sam - maybe the damn rock didn't ever stop but neither did his brother.

Right now, however, Dean was really wishing he would. Every unnecessary noise grated on his nerves and in lieu of choking the witch herself with the rock, anybody making any sound at all was starting to seem like a tempting alternative.

Reminding himself that he really shouldn't shove things down his little brother's airway, he just took a deep breath and said, "Sam. Take a break, man. The rock will still be here later."

Sam simply shot his eyes up at Dean without moving his head. "Well, yeah. That's the problem isn't it?"

He straightened up and rubbed his face, letting out a frustrated sigh. "This is just too fucking stupid. We should be fighting demons, researching deals. I don't know... something. And instead we're stuck dealing with some random bloody cursed object. We don't have time for shit like this, I... I just want to figure this out and get it out of the way. We just... we don't have time..."

Sam stopped himself when he realized that his tone had taken on a desperate edge. He'd been living in a silent state of panic pretty much since Wyoming and these days it seemed to color even the most innocent of statements.

_We don't have time._

He clamped down on the feeling and forced himself to smile at his harassed looking brother, "Besides; I don't know about you, but I've heard enough southern disaster stories to permanently damage my sex life."

Despite himself, Dean grinned at that. "There has to be something there in order to damage it, Friar Sam."

Sam shot his brother a dirty look but then simply cricked his neck and went back to the keyboard.

Pretty sure that this bout of research would turn up the same barrel of lemons as the previous ones, Dean retreated into the motel's tiny bathroom. Throughout his life he'd discovered that the bathroom was usually the quietest part of any given establishment. That is, of course, unless a talking rock follows you in there and perches itself on the shelf under the mirror.

X

In what Dean assumed was an attempt to make their stay "both unique and enjoyable" (why he still read the brochures, after nearly twenty five years, was beyond him) the bathroom had been decorated in an underwater theme, complete with a purplish, clam shaped shower basin. Inspired by the maritime atmosphere of the room (or it's terrorizing effect, take your pick), the rock launched into a colorful rendering of the basic story line of Jaws. Dean just stared at it, his head throbbing in tandem with the rise and fall of the words.

He just needed it to stop. Just a second of silence. Hell, a fraction of a goddamn second. Just to get some rest. But apparently, that was also too much to ask for.

His headache had been getting steadily worse for days and was more or less in residence now. He knew it wasn't just from exhaustion. He was also sure he could hear the rock much louder than before, louder than anybody else. It seemed to be pressing in on him, filling up all space around him, it's words dissolving into an incoherent buzz that felt as solid as a physical presence. It was starting to feel like there wasn't even room for oxygen in the air anymore- only suffocating waves of sound. His bones ached; the lights were too bright an all noises just plain hurt.

Dean could feel the beginning of moisture on his upper lip and sighed. Oh yeah, and he was getting the fifth nosebleed in two days. _Just great_. Thankfully he'd been able to keep that little fact from his brother. He looked in the mirror and stared for a second at the thin rivulet of blood snaking its way down from his nose, then wiped it away before Sam would see.

He didn't know what was happening to him but it had to be bad. And it had to be because of that thing sitting on the shelf below the mirror, still sporting the small spot of his own blood and still... fucking... talking. He could feel his frustration - no, make that his rage- bubbling away in the pit of his stomach, muddling his thoughts, threatening to overload his already battered mind. But somehow he couldn't muster the strength to even grumble. Everything was just too goddamn surreal and all he wanted in the whole of creation was to be able to close his eyes and fall asleep.

He lowered himself onto the closed toilet and leaned his head back against the cool wall tiles. _Just a second of silence..._

X

Sam knocked on the door "Dean? You all right in there?"

Dean's head snapped up. How long had he been in here? "Yeah, fine."

Sam walked in, eyeing the rock on the shelf and then his brother. "So, uhm... still haven't found anything."

"You don't say."

Sam sighed. Dean looked like crap, but he still had all his walls firmly in place; giving nothing away. He simply tossed Sam a deadpan look, daring the younger brother to ask if he was all right one more time. Frustrated, Sam snatched the rock off the shelf and started scrubbing it under the tap.

"What are you doing?" Dean asked, his voice gravelly.

"Washing the blood off. Maybe then it's not marked..."

"You really think that will work?"

Sam shrugged and added some pine-scented soap for good measure, "No. Not really."

And in fact he was finding that the blood did not budge from the surface of the stone, only dirt and suds flowing down the plughole. He groaned in frustration and threw the rock out into the room, where it came to rest leaving a soapy stain on the carpet.

Dean pulled himself off the toilet and walked back out of the bathroom, sitting down on one of the beds. The rock immediately disappeared from the floor and materialized sitting on the bed spread on the opposite one.

"Hey Sammy, I think it's trying to replace you." Dean said with a strained grin. "But I think it would need to talk more for that."

God he was tired. The air was too heavy and the fucking noise wouldn't stop. Not for a fraction of a goddamn second.

And then the rock switched stories.

Sam would never know what set off this particular story. Maybe the rock was pulling it out of some subconscious pool of things connected to his brother. Maybe they'd asked for so many tales of their father that it would just keep pulling those up every so often. Or maybe it was just shuffling randomly through all the stories the world held, and life was just that much of a bitch. It didn't really matter anyway, not once the rock started reciting:

_Although John Winchester was not a superstitious man, he couldn't help a vague sense of dread settling in the pit of his stomach as he walked up the lawn. The silent suburban house was wreathed in the shadows of naked branches and the night seemed just a little too quiet, a little too dark. He shook his head, determinedly chasing the feeling away. It was stupid, he must just be tired. He smiled at the sight of a light coming on in an upstairs window. Mary would be putting little Sammy to sleep. He'd go in and say goodnight to his baby boy, read Dean his bedtime story, and then curl up with Mary in front of the TV. By the time he was standing on the second floor, listening to the cheerful murmur of his family's voices, he had forgotten all about that strange feeling..._

Dean realized both he and Sam had both been standing perfectly still, the words washing over them like a tidal wave.

It was too much. He was stretched too thin, he was too tired and in too much pain.

That night was not some friggin' story.

_It just wasn't._

That thing did not get to talk about his mother.

_It just didn't._

"Shut up!" He hissed at the rock, his face white, his voice choked. "Just shut the fuck up! Stop! JUST FUCKING STOP!! STOP!!"

_...Mary woke up to a slight whimpering sound from the baby monitor. Or maybe some other sound. She'd thought she heard something else over the static the speaker was now spitting out, but it might just have been the last remnant of a dream. Sleepily she rolled over, realizing that her husband's side of the bed was already empty. Well, it was his turn to go check on the baby, but she was awake anyway and maybe Sammy was hungry. She rubbed her face and stretched tiredly, then swung her legs out of bed..._

And it hit Sam, through his brother's shouting and the stone's talking. It was telling the story. THE story. And Dean didn't know it all. He didn't know about the fact that their mother knew her murderer, he didn't know what his little brother really was... _Oh god, no! Just...no!_ He had to make it stop before it told Dean! But he couldn't move, couldn't make a sound. Frozen in panic he simply stared at the rock, inexorably working it's way towards the revelation of his most horrific secret.

He hardly even heard it's voice, or Dean's shouting, over the rush of his own blood in his ears. _Oh god, he's gonna know!_

_...It took her a moment to realize what she was seeing. It was John. Sleeping in front of the TV, wrapped in the battered old bathrobe she was always telling him to throw out, not a worry in the world. The air seemed to freeze in her lungs as she realized what had to be happening, what had to be in their house. Her entire body cold with terror, she raced up the stairs calling out her baby's name "Sammy!" ..._

"JUST SHUT THE FUCK UP!!"

Sam was only vaguely aware of Dean drawing his gun, firing round after round at the rock where it sat on the table. Then his reflexes cut in and he threw himself at his brother, grabbing the gun from him and throwing them both to the floor as ricochets whizzed over their heads.

In the silence that followed the stone kept talking. But the panic was gone from Sam now and, levering himself up to the table, he quietly told the stone "Tell us something funny."

Without even skipping a beat the stone switched topics and Sam slumped down to the floor, sitting on his ass and eyeing his brother.

Dean was sitting on the floor too, shaking slightly as if drained by the sudden outburst. He gave a sheepish smile, but he was still pale and his eyes wild. They sat there in silence for a long while.

Then Sam slowly straightened up and inspected the bullet holes in the wall. "Uhm, Dean... Don't do that again, okay?"

Dean merely glowered at the rock, which sat completely unharmed on the desk, innocently wrapping up a rather saucy anecdote from the colorful youth of Henry the VIII.

Observing his brother's expression, Sam decided to tailor his expectations to the possible.

"Or at least, take it outside next time."

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**A/N** So another apology ( kind of ): This fic started out all funny but now it seems to be getting pretty angsty on me, fast. Well, such is life, hope I'm not ruining your fun.

And I still thoroughly enjoy a good pat on the head...

**And,** Southern disaster stories are stories of any odd, awkward and embarrassing incidents in bed. They have a counterpart in northern d.s., which refer to embarrassing incidents anywhere else and are obviously never half as funny.


	6. Chapter 6

**Story:** Narrate by youthere

**Disclaimer:** I own'em! I own'em! They're mine!... wait, who was that guy with the glowing hand...?

**Rated for language and possibly minor gore...**

**SPOLERS FOR MYSTERY SPOT AND AHBL2**

**A/N:** It's alive! Jesus it's been a while. In my defence, life went pretty insane there for a while and I have been on internet exile, stuck in meatspace for frustrating, practical, no-way-to-ditch-this reasons. I haven't even checked my emails for ca two weeks, so if somebody sent me a PM or something, I'm not ignoring you, I just probably haven't seen it yet :) Anyway, my apologies and thanks so much for reading.

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NARRATE

VI.

It was... really scary.

They had changed motel rooms quickly after the shooting incident. Stupid as it would have been to get caught on account of his brother's love of classic rock, it happening because of an attempted petricide would have been even worse.

The new room was on the other side of town, decidedly more dilapidated but with a slightly less insane decor, so that balanced out. Their stay there had, however, started with Dean bleeding all over his pillow, freaking Sam out completely, and things had only gotten worse from there.  
At first Dean had simply wandered the motel room restlessly, paper white and trying hard not to shiver to obviously. He was disconnected and silent as if in a daze and, as time passed, it had gotten harder and harder to get through to him at all. It seemed as if the rock was attempting to drown out every sensation other than the overwhelming sound of it's own voice, completely isolating it's victim in the process. It had been four days in the new place now, and Sam wasn't sure if his brother even knew where he was anymore.

Now, Dean simply lay curled up on his bed with the lights off and his eyes squeezed shut. He'd stopped objecting if the lights came on, but Sam guessed that was because he didn't have enough energy left to react, not because they'd stopped hurting him. The only thing the older Winchester did do, was flinch away when his brother attempted to touch him, as if the normally comforting presence was now just too much for his bombarded senses.  
Sam despised himself for feeling slightly hurt at the rejection, but what hurt more, was not being able to even give his brother the small comfort of not being alone.

The only reason that Sam didn't think that this was as bad as it could be, was that experience had taught him things could always, somehow, get worse.  
And Dean getting any worse than that? That was just plain terrifying.

X

It was Friday and a thirteenth. Despite the many superstitions the brothers knew to be absolutely accurate, and the role of numerology in many of their cases, Sam had never really believed there was any curse on that date. But he sure was starting to believe it now. For one thing, the rock had gotten well into the theme of the day, and since the stroke of midnight the brothers had been bombarded with stories of the most ludicrous bad luck.  
Under other circumstances some of the stuff might have been funny in a dark way. Like the one with the orchestra conductor who accidentally stabbed himself in the thigh with his baton and subsequently died of sepsis. But now they only seemed grotesque to Sam, yet another prove of his own helplessness against the wanton cruelty of god, fate, coincidence or whatever the hell was running the world these days.  
He had especially hated the one with the guy that got hit by a falling piano, it reminded him of the sight of his brother spread thinly over Breward asphalt. That hadn't been funny then and it sure as hell wasn't now.

Once, the idea of Dean getting talked to death by an ancient curse would have seemed amusingly appropriate but then, he'd never thought that could actually happen.  
Apparently, however, a situation being ridiculous does not mean it can't kill you, and, although Sam wasn't exactly sure what was happening, he knew one thing; the rock was killing his brother.

X

Words had long since dissolved into a solid, heavy vibration. It dug relentlessly into his scull, wrapping around his brain so tight that it overwhelmed anything else. He was trapped, with the pain and the attempts at thought, that never seemed able to form before breaking again into a million pieces and scattering their shards and splinters all through his staggering mind.  
He only knew he was alone and in pain and it would never stop.  
He let out a muffled moan and buried his face in his pillow, instinctively seeking shelter in the cool darkness of the linen. But it was no help, the mass of the voice tore through his head like a freight train, trailing electric shocks of white hot pain. It burrowed in behind his eyes, worming its burning tendrils into every muscle in his scull, wrapping them around his spine and cutting off every sensation but the relentless agony.  
He didn't even feel the wetness of the blood smearing his cheek.

X

Sam's own head was swimming. The lack of sleep, the worry for his brother and the constant hum of sound from the story rock left him lightheaded and slow. He hated to leave Dean's side but he had to get away, get some air. Almost afraid that his brother would get worse simply if he took his eyes off him, he opened the door quietly and stepped just outside onto the porch. He didn't dare go any further.

The silence hit him like a punch. For a minute he couldn't breathe, the impression that someone was holding a pillow over his face shooting a quick panic through his muddled mind. Then small noises started making their way back into the world, and the car park became filled with the low, soothing susurration of normality.  
Sam didn't know how long he'd been shaking, but now he allowed his knees to give out and slid his back down the wall until he was sitting on the motel porch in the sun, shivering madly.  
His head was still buzzing, but now only with thoughts; chaotic impressions and undefined ideas whirling around a center of panicked helplessness.  
There was nothing he could do. No matter how deep he dug, all he got was the same answer as he did that first day: the only solution is to mark the stone in someone else's blood and condemn them, or return it to the nest.  
In a hopeful moment of inspiration the day before, he had even asked the stone to tell the story of it's own origin. It did so without hesitation and in great detail, but stubbornly withheld the only two facts that Sam was interested in hearing; the location of the nest and the name of stone's creator. The tale of the young warlock that climbed a mountain on an icy winter's night had been completely generic, and so quite useless to the Winchesters.

He didn't know how long he sat there letting his eyes trail aimlessly after any movement, thinking only in half thoughts. A man came out of the room two doors over and made his way to a light blue Volvo that would have had Dean sneering. As Sam watched him rummage around in the trunk of the car, looking for something or other, a thought snuck out of the muffled chaos and perched itself like a gargoyle at the front of his mind.  
The man was distracted and obviously out of shape. The Volvo and the Impala were the only cars for a good stretch of the lot, the surrounding rooms clearly empty. It would be easy.  
He had known all his life that he'd be prepared to die for his brother. Some part of him even knew he'd be willing to kill. Only recently had he known that, driven far enough, when it all came down to it, he'd commit murder.  
The man seemed to find what he was looking for and tucked something into his pocket that Sam couldn't see what was. He locked the trunk and strolled back across the parking lot, all the while completely unaware that he was being watched. The young hunter let his eyes trail after the man as he climbed the porch and entered his own room. When he was gone Sam simply sat there and allowed his guts to turn cold at the thought he had allowed to enter his head.  
The thought he was just too goddamn tired to chase away.

X

Sam didn't dare leave his brother alone too long, and soon got back inside.  
Dean hadn't moved. He was still curled up in his bed in the half dark, face buried in the pillow, every line of his huddled form a perfect illustration of agony.  
Looking at him, Sam knew what he had to do. He knew by now that he'd kill for his brother, but that didn't really matter. He'd always known he'd die for him.

With a minimum of searching he fished his hunting knife out of his duffel and walked over to the desk where the stone lay, prattling on.  
He took a deep breath and drew the blade down the lifeline in his palm cutting deeply, blood welling up. He wouldn't allow Dean's life to end this way. Maybe it would end in a few months anyway, now that Sam wouldn't be around to find a way out of the deal, but at least that was farther off. He could buy his brother some time.  
Biting back a hiss of pain, he reached out his hand for the rock.  
And then he stopped dead, suddenly mesmerized by what he realized he was hearing.

_She could hear him calling, across all the world's voids. He wasn't doing it consciously, not yet. But she felt his desperation shining out, like a scorching mid day sun over the desert. No, make that a mushroom cloud.  
Normally that would have been enough to have her rushing to him. It was why she could sense desperation after all; so she could put herself in the right places at the right times. But there was no need this time, he would come. He would come crawling and begging.  
And then he did summon her and, oh, was she ready.  
"Show your face you bitch!"  
She allowed herself a small smile, every cell of her stolen body trilling in victory and anticipation.  
"Easy sugar, you'll wake the neighbors..."_

The knife lay forgotten on the floor, the blood welling thick out of his injured hand, coursing down his wrist and saturating the cuff of his shirt. Sam stood for what felt like an eternity and listened in sickened fascination, to what exactly had happened while Samuel Winchester was dead.  
And he knew it then; his sacrifice wouldn't save Dean, any more than Dean's had saved him.

The Winchester brothers could no longer survive without each other. It hadn't always been like that, but something had changed and it would never change back. They would pull through together, or not at all.  
This, it seemed, would be the time of the 'not at all'. Switching their places had been Sam's last desperate measure and it was useless, worthless. A gesture of love, but not a solution.  
He shut his eyes and balled his injured hand into a fist, tears pushing at the back of his eyelids.

They were well and truly screwed now.

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**AN** I know... Sam would NEVER consider committing cold blooded murder! Except he did in Mystery Spot didn't he? Goody may have lost a shoe, huh... And speaking of MS, I did actually think Dean getting hit with the piano was pretty hilarious. Sam probably didn't, though...  
Also, the sepsis story is true. Honest.


	7. Interlude

**Story: **Narrate by youthere

**Disclaimer:** I own'em! I own'em! They're mine!... wait, who was that guy with the glowing hand...?

**Spoilers: **References **No Exit **and **IMTOD, **but rather harmlessly.

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INTERLUDE

He sat on a musty chair in his mustier basement, staring at the endless stacks of boxes. He had already checked everywhere else and the boxes in the basement were that bloody straw. The one you find yourself clutching, even when you know it's about as useful as a fire extinguisher in Hell. Most of them were filled with plain crap, he knew; nothing there. But he also knew he'd end up going through every last one of them, anyway.

He took a deep breath and then blew it out forcefully, trying to dispel the weariness creeping ever deeper into his bones. He had hardly slept in a week, but that was about the only thing he hadn't done. He'd dug up books he'd forgotten existed and called contacts he'd been sure were dead by now. He'd experimented with just about every spell, ward or combination thereof, that he thought were even remotely likely to work, and even with the ones he knew were hogwash.  
Hell, he'd even tried that stupid Ouija board Sam had left at the house after John passed. Now, there was something he'd never thought he'd be caught dead using, so to speak.  
And what he'd also done was listen on the phone as Sam's voice grew more desperate by the day. He'd known the shit was really hitting it some two days ago, when Sam had gone from sounding tired and scared, to exhausted and positively panicked. The only thing that had kept him from rushing to the young man's side was the fact that, the steaming pile of nothing he had in South Dakota was still better for info than any pile anywhere else.

But it hadn't been easy, sticking with his library. He knew this was where he'd be most useful, but every instinct was screaming at him to go be with the (his) boys. He'd found himself wondering when exactly he'd grown so attached to the Winchester brothers, but had quickly given up on the question. They were family now and that was simply that.

He ran his palm over his scruffy beard, hand coming away greasy. Among the things he hadn't really taken time for in the last few days was showering and, to be honest, even he was starting to feel a bit too grizzled.  
He dove into the stack of boxes with a grunt. He knew there was nothing there, but it was all he could do at the moment and then he would sure as hell do it. Because the Winchester brothers had Bobby Singer in their corner.

X

She sat back in her booth and slowly swirled her whiskey. This was a matter of patience more than anything else. She felt like a prospector, kneeling in frigid Alaska mud hoping for a small shimmer of something worthwhile in his big pan of crap.  
She was good at it; shifting through information, teasing it out of reluctant sources, balancing out favors, knowing when to give trust and when to ask for it. Maybe she no longer had a bar counter for her sources to lean on, but that didn't mean they were gone. She still had people to call on and she'd contacted every last one of them for the Winchesters. She had talked and listened and pushed and wheedled, called in favors and tracked down friends of friends of friends. She was still waiting for a call from a source she'd only tracked down today. He wouldn't be able to help, she already knew that. But she had to try.

She couldn't pinpoint the exact moment that John's boys had become her responsibility, but bottom line; they were. She couldn't fail them. Not those two.  
She sighed and swirled the drink again, not quite having an appetite for it anymore. Involuntarily, her mind drifted back. To the time she had hated John Winchester with a fervent violence, the gaping pit inside her still fresh and all consuming. The time when it seemed hate was the only thing she had that was strong, that could keep her from simply collapsing in on herself.  
But that was a long time ago and she had learned how to hold on, and eventually how to be all right. How to wake up every morning and smile at her little girl. She wondered if John had ever really gotten there.

She was startled out of her thoughts by the sound of the phone ringing, her contact finally getting back to her. She knew he couldn't help, but she'd try him anyway. If there was one thing Ellen Harwelle knew how to do, it was persevere.

X

_He decided to call it smoke, since the alternative was a collective condensation of body heat. Whatever it was made it near impossible to see the bar, and as for seeing the bartender standing behind it, that was a lost cause. Hoping that, with some odd kind of professional skill, the man ( he was pretty sure it was a man; no woman would set a foot in here, for sure ) could see him, he made a vague drinking motion and accepted what was poured for him. He couldn't see the selection of bottles, but he figured the place couldn't exactly be a gourmet's wet dream, anyway.  
_

_He perched himself on a bar stool, squinted into the dim room and waited for Jim to show up. He had good news; the shipment would be arriving early, putting them days ahead of schedule. Jim's contact would be pleased, and that guy was really someone you wanted to keep happy.  
But the shipment was obviously the only thing that would be arriving early. He ended up sitting at the aging counter for hours, downing three large godawful beers and feeling the absence of a pool table something fierce._

_He couldn't really remember what had caused him to strike up a conversation with the ruffled looking man sitting next to him nursing a bourbon. It was one of those bar chats you just find yourself trapped in without quite knowing how. The kind that sooner or later always swings 'round to "the one that got away".  
In fact they'd only been talking for about twenty minutes when, sure as the tides, Bourbon Man swung into a description of a leggy blond from a long time ago. A veritable angel this woman seemed to have been, and he found himself doubting she'd have ever spared as much as a glance for the alcohol marinated heap of looser sitting next to him. At some point in the description he couldn't stomach any more and snorted into his glass.  
"Come on man. If you're gonna tell stories, at least give me something I haven't heard a million times before."  
Bourbon Man simply laughed, not the least bit offended, and then leaned a bit more heavily on the counter.  
"Something new, eh? Hell buddy, now that I think I can do for ya..."_

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**AN: **Just a deep breath before I start trying to pull the brothers out of that swamp I seem to have marched them into... If only it were that easy in real life, eh?

And, as always, reviews make my day. No, seriously: you should see me preen :)


	8. Chapter 7

**Story:** Narrate by youthere

**Disclaimer:** I own'em! I own'em! They're mine!... wait, who was that guy with the glowing hand...?

**Rated for language and possibly minor gore...**

**SPOLERS FOR TIME IS ON MY SIDE  
**

**A/N: **Okay guys, this just seems destined to be one of those stories that move along at their own leisurely pace, no matter how anyone huffs and puffs. I'm getting it out there as fast as I can, but I think we'll all just have to contend with waiting for it to form at it's own discretion... Sorry 'bout that :)

Great big thanx to Adara Chan at for strapping on a pair of goggles and wading through the murky mess that had become this chapter. Brave, brave lady.

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NARRATE

VII.

It was right there, all along.

Seething at his own stupidity, Sam snapped his phone shut with a curse. His hand stung slightly as the movement aggravated the cut in his palm, and he squeezed a little harder just for spite.

He felt cheated. As if he were in a Loony Tune and the rabbit, or whatever it was, that he was chasing, had been doubling back and switching all the road signs around. But at the end of the day, he knew that was an excuse. He wasn't a helpless victim here. The answer he'd been looking for had been within arm's reach the entire time. He'd just not been smart enough to figure it out. These days, there seemed to be a whole pile of things he wasn't smart enough to figure out. And his brother was paying the price for every single one of them.

Bobby had called just as Sam was finishing dressing his hand. Their friend had been checking in maybe once or twice a day, so Sam hadn't thought much of it when he saw his name on the caller ID. He'd simply padded over to Dean's bed before answering, perching himself on the edge of the mattress and resisting the urge to put a hand on his brother's shoulder. But this time, Bobby did have news.

Apparently, Ellen had tracked down an entry in a hunter's journal.

The man who wrote the journal had met a man...who had a friend, who'd talked to a guy...who knew a man...who'd shared a drink with a man... who'd bragged he'd climbed a mountain and made something. Something infinitely strange. It was a drunkard's yarn in endless degrees of separation; a complicated chain of phantom story tellers and an elusive hope on the end. It was a rumor at best, but hunters were the last people in the world to ignore a rumor. Or a flicker of hope.

And operating on that small flicker, Bobby had somehow managed to dig up the identity of the bragging drinker. An alchemist, it seemed. An alchemist and warlock by the name of Anthony Butcher.

"He disappeared about a decade ago," Bobby had told Sam over the phone. "Of course, nobody really looked for him until now."

"But now you've been looking," Sam had asked, his voice carefully neutral, hope rigidly controlled. "You found him, right?"

"I don't know where he lives but I know what name he's using." The older hunter had replied, snorting. "It's Carpenter."

At first the name had meant nothing. Then Sam had nearly dropped the phone as realization hit him.

"_Miss Bertram? From next door?" An older man's face stared innocently up at him, worn and marked, smelling slightly of bourbon. "Well, now that you mention it, I haven't seen her around for days. Why? Has something happened?"_

Right there. All along.

X

Sam ran his eyes over the overflowing book shelves that covered most of the den wall. They were stuffed with everything from paperback cowboy stories to invaluable, ancient tomes bound in thick, stained leather. The books didn't seem to be arranged in any particular order, just stuffed into the shelves wherever there was room, the organized chaos of a study in heavy use. Every other surface in the room had also been taken over by books, except a small corner of a side table, where a decanter and a dirty glass valiantly stood their ground. There was not much else in the room, only the books, Sam and the alchemist.

"So," Butcher said, reaching for the decanter and glass with a small smile. "You don't seem to be in the mood to accept a drink, but you'll have to wait while I have one. Almost having your front door knocked down by the FBI tends to rattle the nerves."

Sam turned his attention from the books to this man, whom he had dismissed as ignorant, even innocent, on their first meeting. He was shorter than average, fair in color and slightly chubby. He looked much older than Sam knew him to be, his expression stiff, his colors faded. He had a worn-out air about him, like a man who had stretched too far and lived too fast, at the expense of his health and maybe his sanity.

Now that Sam took the time to really scrutinize him, he also noticed a strange edge to the alchemist's smile and a greedy, almost demented spark buried deep in his slightly-unfocused eyes.

At first sight, he seemed to be a rather battered man in his late sixties, annoying and a bit pathetic, but essentially harmless. But when you looked at him carefully, the young hunter realized, Anthony Butcher/ Carpenter was actually creepy as all hell.

"So, Agent," the alchemist said, lazily pouring a generous amount of bourbon into the glass and taking a sip. "Are you still looking for Miss Bertram? I'm afraid I haven't seen her at all."

Sam lunged in. He had left Dean alone in their new motel room and was not in any mood to play innocent with this guy.

"I'm not FBI. I need to know about the story rock you made and gave to Miss Bertram."

Butcher looked up, surprised and amused, and Sam kicked himself. He was in a hurry, but he couldn't afford to screw up this conversation.

It seemed he hadn't, however, because the older man simply chuckled and took a sip of his drink. "You don't fuck around, do you? I admire that in a person. Never got the hang of it, myself."

He didn't seem inclined to continue, so Sam prompted. "So it was you? You made the rock and gave it to her."

Butcher shook his head with a serious expression. "No, this is no good. You can't tell me what you're not, and not tell me what you are. Since you're not gonna be Agent Anderson, I'll need another name to call you. The real one, please."

He carried himself with an exaggerated calm, his voice theatrically reasonable. Sam knew he was being toyed with, but he didn't see that he had much choice but to play along.

"Winchester. Sam Winchester."

"A hunter, I take it."

"Yes. And I need to know about the rock. Where did you take it from?"

"Hm, you are one insistent bugger," said the alchemist, still in the same conversational tone. "What makes you think I've ever made one of those? What makes you think the witch didn't make it herself?"

"The fact that you obviously know what the hell a story rock is, and that she had one. And that you know what she was," Sam answered. "I think she was a beginner at magic and you were teaching her. Then when she drew hunters' attention, you got rid of her. That's why we couldn't find her when we came back."

The man looked impressed. Sam had obviously scored a point.

"Well, let's say I did. What makes you think I'm going to just sit down and tell you all about it?"

Sam lost his patience again. His brother was dying—he didn't have time for entertaining this guy.

"Look. I just need to know. Then I'll leave and never bother you again...please. My brother..... I'll pay, trade you, whatever. I just need to know where you went to make the rock."

This time, he had screwed up. The older man's eyes took on an unpleasant sparkle.

"Your brother? What about him?"

The alchemist already knew the answer to that, Sam figured. Butcher would know the curse and its consequences and could guess the rest. He rubbed the bridge of his nose and took a deep breath. God, he was tired. "Just tell me. Please."

Whatever game they'd been playing, he could tell that he'd lost. Butcher slugged back the rest of his drink, grimaced and slammed the glass back on the table, his false joviality giving was to brusque coldness. "Sorry. I can't help you."

Sam just stood still in the middle of the floor, an overwhelming sense of failure and helpless anger racing, neck to neck, through his veins.

"Did you hear me?" The alchemist sounded almost bored now, satisfied but disinterested. "I can't help you. Get out."

Sam took a deep breath and then pulled out his .45 in a swift, fluid motion and pointed it directly at the center of the other man's forehead.

"No. You're going to tell me how to help my brother," he said, his voice low and slightly breathless.

Butcher cocked his head. "You're going to shoot a man in cold blood, Mr. Hunter? I'm not a ghost or a ghoul, boy. Point that thing somewhere else before you make yourself a murderer."

Sam said nothing, merely kept his gun trained on its target. But there was a look in his eyes, now, that made the older man hesitate.

When Anthony Butcher had opened his front door, a short while earlier, there had been this freaked out kid on the doorstep, earnest, flustered and more than a little scared. He seemed harmless. Now, however, the kid seemed to have smoothly shed a skin, and what was left behind was anything but.

The young man now carried himself like a seasoned warrior, his aim rock steady, his expression calm as a hangman's mask. And it occurred to the alchemist that, while 'young' and 'scared' usually added up to 'harmless', 'young', 'scared' and 'hunter' probably produced something else entirely.

"Well, brothers are forgiving, you know." He squinted at Sam and tried to hold on to his bravado. "I'm sure yours will forgive you for shooting the only person who could save him."

The hunter's voice, when it came, was so low that the words were hardly heard. "Save him?"

And as he looked at the young man, the alchemist felt something shift.

It was as if the air in the room had somehow sprung to life, writhing and swirling like a boiling river, almost visible in its sudden violence. As it hissed and raged, it seemed to pull the shadows of the room out of their corners, magnifying them and giving them life. They slowly, possessively, wove themselves around the young man, who still stood with his gun pointed at Butcher. He seemed unaware of the occult outburst around him, but his eyes also seemed darker, his face even harder.

Butcher had spent his life in the pursuit of power. It had cost him, burnt him out, burnt him away. But he knew power when he felt it. When he saw it. Sam Winchester may not have known what he was capable of, but Anthony Butcher was starting to have an inkling.

He took a step backwards and stared, like a man who has opened his door on a warm summer evening and found himself looking into the pitch black of winter storms.

"You think you can save him?" Sam said quietly. "You can't even imagine...You're nothing in all of this. You don't even have a clue."

His face was as inscrutable as this cryptic comment and Butcher simply stood and waited.

"You know," the younger man added after a while. "Just earlier today I was wondering about something. I started wondering... exactly how far I would go for my brother, to save him, to keep him safe. I wondered what, when it all came down to it, I wouldn't be willing to do for him..."

Butcher swallowed convulsively. The room felt ice cold now. The storm had relented a little but the shadows remained, wreathed around the hunter's looming figure, whispering with power and hellish promises.

Sam cocked the gun and took careful aim at the alchemist's kneecap. "Turns out, not much."

For the longest time, the two men just stood there and stared at each other, both their hearts racing. But the blood felt cold in Sam's veins, while Butcher's was burning adrenaline, mixed with curiosity.

Then the alchemist smiled. There was fear in the smile, even terror, but also a strange excitement, a reckless abandon. It was the smile of the ultimate gambler, loading up for a round of Russian roulette.

"Well, here you are," he said with a slight nod. "Your father's son without a doubt."

The spell was broken. As if it had never howled, the storm was gone. The younger man looked merely human again, tired and confused.

"What?" Sam asked, his brows wrinkled, but his aim not wavering. "What do you mean?"

He still seemed dangerous, though, and Butcher wondered how on earth he had ever dismissed this guy as harmless.

"Winchester." The alchemist nodded. "I ran across a John once when he was hunting down a colleague of mine. Your old man, I'm guessing. Threatened to shoot me, too, you know. Maybe it runs in the family."

Sam said nothing. He felt quite thrown by this turn in the conversation, as well as the alchemist's seeming disregard for the weapon still pointed at him.

"That colleague was called Benton, quite a gifted alchemist," the older man continued. "I've been told Winchester found him eventually. Ripped out his heart, they say."

Sam nodded. He remembered that story, remembered being 14 and horrified. And a little bit resentful that his father, who never told them anything, had felt the need to tell them that.

"Yeah. So what if he did?"

The alchemist's smile grew even wider. He looked dangerous, in the way that a runaway truck does. He walked over to the bookshelves and pulled out a small, battered book in an unmarked leather cover.

"This is my journal from the time I made the rock. It has everything written down; how, when and where." He held it up for Sam to see. "I'll trade you for it."

Sam lowered the gun fractionally. "Trade it? For what?"

"For the hunting journal of John Winchester."

For a second, Sam just stared at the man.

"A journal for a journal," Butcher continued. "I want to know everything your father knew about Benton and his research, and you want to know all about the story rock."

"You want to find Benton's research? Use it?" Sam asked hoarsely.

Butcher nodded. "And I think your father's journal might help me do that."

He lifted up his own battered book and looked at the young hunter, suddenly serious.

"Come on. I'll show you mine if you show me yours."

X

Sam got back to the motel just as night was falling. He had practically driven in the air to get back, having already left Dean alone much longer than he cared to.

Butcher's journal was a strange weight in his pocket, smaller and a different shape from the book that should have been there. He had tried to squirm out of actually leaving John's journal with the warlock, but the older man had been completely inflexible. At the end of the day, the more desperate party always loses a negotiation, and Sam needed Butcher's book a lot more than Butcher needed John's.

It had occurred to the young hunter to take the journal by force, but the strange gleam in the older man's eyes made him nervous. It occurred to him that the warlock would have pushed him to pull the trigger, simply to find out if he would. And that was something Sam himself didn't really want to discover. It felt like the worst kind of sacrilege, leaving his father's journal behind like that; their family bible, their road map, their birthright. But he knew there hadn't been any choice. He'd get it back after he fixed this mess.

And if it couldn't be fixed, well, then he didn't really care what happened, anyway.

He fumbled with his keys in the gloom, the weak bulb in the motel's porch light only casting a faint glow over his unsteady hands.

Maybe it was just the dark, but something suddenly felt wrong to Sam. Something about the quiet shadows crowding the parking lot made the skin on the back of his neck tingle, as if anticipating the touch of strange hands or possibly a blade. Maybe it was just the darkness, but a hunter knew better than to take the chance.

He pulled out his gun and stood still, waiting and listening, but nothing stirred in the empty lot. There were no strange sounds, no alien movements, only the hum of traffic from the town's main road.

All senses still on alert, Sam silently slid the keys into the lock and cautiously pushed the door open. He tensed, not knowing what to expect, but the room was dark and quiet.

Quiet.

Sam froze in the doorway, his mind finally catching up with his senses and filling him with apprehension. He should have been hearing the non-stop buzz of the story rock that never left his brother's side. It should have rolled across the room and spilled out onto the porch, like it had every damn day for two weeks. But it wasn't there, and somehow, any explanation Sam's weary mind could come up with was thoroughly horrible.

Fingers numb with dread, he reached for the light switch and flipped it on.

Dean's bed was empty.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

**AN:** Okay, so this bit was mostly talking, but I had some 'splaining to do....

And yeah, another entirely Dean-less chapter- not good. But fret not, I'm bringing him back in the next one and it sure won't be to feed him milk and cookies :)

Also, about the bourbon... I've recently realized that what I call borboun, Americans probably call whiskey (and I think my 'whiskey' is what they call 'scotch'... dunno, seems to be a 'football' kinda thing... ). Anyways, I'd already posted a chapter where I go on and on about borboun, so I just decided to keep using that word. Forgive me this piece of unamerican-ness :)


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